Page 112 of The Heir
It was morning, although outside it was still nearly dark as midnight. The remains of breakfast sat on the table. The fire had been built up fresh, and the rain still poured down. Liza had joked about the necessity of building an ark, or perhaps they could simply trade the horses for dolphins.
Jane craned her neck, trying to see past the eaves, in case the clouds had begun to clear. “I can’t.” She squinted. Was that perhaps a tiny bit of blue?
“Why not?” Liza spread her toast with the landlady’s surprisingly good marmalade.
“I don’t know.” Jane turned to face her sister. “I just . . . I feel like something’s wrong.”
“What could be wrong?”
“She didn’t write, Liza.” Jane’s voice broke. She hadn’t realized quite how that neglect had affected her until this moment. “She’s always writing letters. But it’s gone on three weeks, and there’s been nothing.”
Clearly, Liza wanted to snap back some bit of sarcasm, but something in Jane’s face stopped her.
“Jane, you said yourself Father would be watching her particularly closely. She probably just didn’t find a way to slip the net. That’s all.”
I’ve spent half my life finding the cracks . . .Jane turned back to the windows.
Behind her, Liza sighed. In the next moment, she tossed her napkin aside and yanked on the bell rope.
Betty appeared from the parlor. “Yes, miss?”
“Betty, get your stout boots on,” said Liza. “It seems Miss Jane has decided we’re going for a little walk.”
* * *
The room was well lit. A good fire burned. The rain slammed against the windows, as if angry at being denied admittance.
Her daughter lay still in her little travel bed, her face nearly as white as the sheets.
“We should get the doctor,” Victoire said.
“And what will the doctor do?” asked Sir John. “Bleed her? What she needs is a little rest. Some broth and tea, and she’ll be right as rain in a few days.”
Yes, that’s it. That’s all it will take. I am worrying too much. It is the mothering instinct. It is that I love her, that I need her—
Sir John was behind her now. He laid both hands on her shoulders and squeezed. Just a little too hard, but she could not seem to tell him to stop.
“You agreed with me that she was not ill, that she was just feigning. When the board asks, that is what will be said.”
“By you.”
What is the matter with me? Why can’t I move? Why can’t I think? Edward? Edward, my dearest, what have I done?
But the answer came from Sir John.
“It’s the truth, Victoire. You know it is. She was feigning. Just as she did when we first left Kensington. How was it to be known that these symptoms were anything different?”
“I do not neglect my daughter,” she breathed. “I have never neglected her!”
I am not making any sense. But neither is he. Worrying about what the board will say because she’s caught cold!
Edward caught cold. Edward died of his cold.
“No, of course not. There is no more dedicated mother than you. I see that every day. But she is a stubborn girl, and she has a distressing tendency to falsehood when the mood overtakes her. She said herself that she would feign illness if she did not get her way.”
“Yes.” Victoire grabbed hold of his words like a lifeline. “Yes, she did do that.”
It is not my fault. It cannot be. I have only done my best. Edward, you know that, my heart. You do know.
